Burgers & Tomatoes
by XxDarkSongxX
Summary: A loud-mouthed American and a foul-mouthed Italian walk into a market…stop me if you heard this one.


**Burgers & Tomatoes**

**Rating: **T

**Warning: **Romano's mouth

**Summary:** A loud-mouthed American and a foul-mouthed Italian walk into a market…stop me if you heard this one.

I once read a short Hetalia comic in which Spain and England were having a "my underling was cuter than yours" battle and Romano and America were not amused. Thus, it sparked my idea of a bonding fic between these unlikely friends. Actually, the comic is, in my headcanon, sort of how they met.

Disclaimer: How could I own a country (as much as I'd like to?)

Happy birthday America! 8D *shoots fireworks*

**XXX**

America watched amused as a tottering tier of dried pasta made its way over to him. "Ah, Lovino, what are you doing?"

The southern Italian didn't say a word as he commenced to carefully place the pasta packages into the cart one at a time with the loving care of a doting parent. "Saving you from the absolutely worthless shit you have at home. It's not even worthy to be called pasta."

"Foul! There's nothing wrong with Annie's Mac & Cheese©." Lips pulled into a pout as the American leaned with both arms against the cart. He gazed listlessly as the bags of pasta were placed, names such as fusilli and rigatoni going over his head. What was fusilli anyway, some kind of fish?

"Are you shitting me? That stuff's only worthy enough to be used as cat litter." Jostling the pasta pyramid in his arms Romano continued placing the various pasta bags into the cart.

"Number one, never _ever_ diss Annie's in my house again—I have nukes. Second, you gotta let me help you bra. After all, a hero doesn't let his friend potentially injure himself while putting _pasta_ in a shopping cart." America watched with a combination of amusement and irritation as his southern Italian friend refused his help once more.

All around them in the market, people were hurrying past them, throwing instant ramen noodles into baskets, checking shopping lists, running after laughing children, discussing the pros and cons of soy milk, or squabbling with their significant other—which was exactly what America and Romano were doing…minus the whole 'significant other' thing.

"I'd sooner let the potato with arms escort my _fratello_ home from a party than accept help with such a trivial matter," Romano sniffed, sliding the bag of bow-tie pasta (were they supposed to _eat_ that?) into the cart in an effort to show off. He didn't rebuke America for the nuke mention—probably figured America didn't mean it. And he didn't.

Even a snail could reason that Spain wouldn't be happy if someone threatened to nuke his precious Lovi.

After a few seconds had passed, America snorted, walked to the side of the cart, and promptly dislodged the pasta pyramid by grabbing a few bags from the top.

"Oi, burger bastard! Whaddya think you're doing!"

"You're taking foreeeeeeeever," America whined, tossing the bags into the cart. "We'd be here all day if it wasn't for the hero!"

"You don't just THROW pasta into a cart!" the southern Italian looked absolutely scandalized. "Pasta needs to be treated with care!" He unceremoniously dumped the pasta into America's arms and peered inside the cart to view the poor bags of pasta, hands fluttering like a mother hen. "Oh, my poor rigatoni! Did the fat, stupid American injure you?"

On the opposite side of the aisle, America became suddenly aware of a trio of college girls who was looking at them and giggling behind their hands.

"Yup, you and your brother are total opposites," he dead-panned.

However, in retrospect, America thought as he and Romano ambled around the meat section, pasta would be an interesting choice for a barbeque food. Romano had managed to arrange a short visit while he was in the other country on business, so in order to celebrate, America had the "brilliant idea" of a barbeque. Only problem was, Romano was practically spitting in anger when he had first heard the menu:

"_Fluorescent strawberry cake! I'm surprised the states haven't DIED yet from your terrible food!"_

"_Hey, we're known for awesome food!"_

"_Besides the artery-clogging burgers and the waistline extending hot dogs?"_

Needless to say, Romano had him in the car driving to the market faster than you could say, "Ciao motherfucker!"

"Hey, _prosciutto_!" Romano dashed over to the far right, his curl bouncing absently, "I can make some bitchin' grilled _paninis_ to go with it!" a sharp smirk flickered across his face for a moment. It seemed to America that the southern Italian would appear happy when it either concerned cute girls or food—especially when they happened at once.

"Sounds great bro, but did you say pen—?"

A palm slapped to the face could be heard throughout the entire building. "Remind me why I hang out with you again."

"'Cuuuuuuz for one thing, I'm an amazingly handsome hero. And for another thing, I'm actually willing to listen to you bitch about your problems all day."

Romano spluttered, "That's only because I put up with your self-centered, hero-obsessed, burger-guzzling self whenever we meet!"

"Oh, and let's not forget that I oh-so kindly beat up Antonio and Iggy when they were having their weird 'my-underling-was-cuter-than-yours' battle."

"…Point taken. We really were raised by some sorry screwed up bastards," Romano appeared mildly contemplative as he put the prosciutto in the cart.

America had to grin at that observation. "I wouldn't have it any other way though." And then, because the atmosphere was too boring, he ran ahead of Romano, pulling off a wheelie with the cart, laughing as the shorter nation raced after him, yelling insult after insult.

After the short run about the fruit section he came to a screeching stop before the meat section, suppressing a snort as Romano slid beside him, clutching a batch of grapes and tomatoes. "Burger bastard, keep in mind that all of us have your fucking alien strength."

"Not true! I didn't get my strength from Tony! I was born this way!"

"You've reached a new level of idiocy," Romano was not amused.

"Why?"

"You mentioned your weird-ass alien friend and Lady Gaga in a single sentence. Would you care for an award?"

America uttered a snort-laugh and looked at the food Romano held in his arms. "I thought you didn't eat any foreign food."

"These were imported from Italy," he gazed with admiration at the fruit, "these markets of yours have all sorts of food imported from around this fucked up world." He cackled, "Maybe because your own food is so awful that—"

One single look from America made Romano quaver. "You know, I've wondered why Antonio puts up with you," he mused, "he must really care about you." Any rebuttals about to be made were interrupted by the blond; despite the fact that he hated to see any of his friends in distress, a little payback was in order. "Anywho, look what I found!"

"What?"

"Pierre Foods Angus Cheeseburgers©!" America held up the pack of meat with his trademark 'hero smile'. "We can grill these along with your prostitute meat or whatever you call them."

A few seconds later, shoppers beheld a young Italian man running out of the market screaming bloody murder.

_*~BURGERS~*_

After a few other shopping shenanigans (one of which included a can of tomato sauce, an illegally held knife, and one extremely angry employee), Romano and America were driving home, trunk filled with the goods needed for their barbeque.

"You almost got us arrested!" the American yelled to the Italian occupant in the seat. "How can I be a hero when I'm arrested! Just be glad that my boss sent them a message explaining that you had the knife because you were inspecting the imported food!" He groaned and slammed his head against the steering wheel, accidentally setting off the horn and earning the glares of the entire street. "He's gonna kick me out of myself again!"

"Again? What moronic act of stupidity did you do last time?"

"I let Tony blow up the West Wing."

"…Were you fucking wasted or something?" There was no response, further proving Romano's point. "Anyway, where are we eating?"

America beamed a complete 180 from a few seconds ago (_creepy as hell…_). "Cali's letting us borrow her place for today! She said she was going to be out of town anyway."

Upon hearing California's nickname, Romano's interest increased. "Where is California?" he didn't bother hiding the warmth in his voice when referring to her. It had been a while since she (along with her annoying siblings) visited him in Rome.

"She's visiting New York. Something about travelling to Paris for Fashion Week to view some American collections," America smiled proudly as he pulled into the driveway. "I bet they make France jealous."

"I hope they will; I've never really liked the wine bastard."

"You've never really liked anyone except for any cute girl you flirt with."

Romano kicked America in the knee as he helped to carry in the bags. "Suck it, burger bastard."

"I used to be an irritable brat like you, but then I took a boot to the knee," America sang, his blue eyes laughing in mirth, the sadistic super-strong bastard.

"I'm older than you, so shut the fuck up!" Romano seriously considered taking a leaf out of the crazy Hungarian's book and decking America with a frying pan on the kitchen stove. Unfortunately, knowing his abnormal strength, the pan might as well bounce right off him. Damn.

"Age is never an option, but maturity is," he said in what he called his 'wise old sage' voice while disappearing into California's kitchen to look for olive oil.

"Spoken like the king himself," Romano paused to face the living room. While California's house had a relaxing seaside theme, it was clear that the Mediterranean was infused as well. Her time with Spain had left its mark—aside from the pillows shaped like tomatoes, an axe was proudly displayed on the wall behind her couch. He smirked, imagining the faces of her visitors.

Placing the bags on the table he rummaged through one before he pulled out the butter. Slipping into the kitchen silently he measured the amounts he would need to coat the grill. "I'm going to go outside to prepare the grill for the paninis. I'm assuming California has one, _si_?"

"You betcha! You'll see it in the backyard. It's this really shiny red color, like the color of a—" Romano disappeared out the back door.

A few minutes later, America opened the back door to witness a sight that few ever got to behold.

Standing at the grill, Romano navigated the grill with the air of a pit master, checking the bread as they grilled, occasionally flipping them over to ensure that they grilled on both sides. What was really mind reeling was that Romano was _smiling_ as he worked. Granted, it wasn't a fully blown smile that always seemed present on Italy's mouth, but Romano sure as hell wasn't scowling.

In order to preserve this sight for as long as humanly possible, America proceeded to tiptoe around the deck, placing the dish of pasta on the patio table and setting up the kitchenware. The scent of heavenly tomatoes filled the air when Romano began placing them with precision on top of the prosciutto. It was only when he accidentally scraped against a chair that Romano jumped about a foot in the air.

"B-burger bastard! How long have you been there?"

"Eh, not long." He shrugged nonchalantly, "I just came out to put the plates on the table. There's no need to get jumpy dude, I'm not the mafia."

"…Are you forgetting the mafias in Chicago and New Jersey?"

America just looked at him with a smirk. "And whose fault was that?"

_Dammit_. "Anyway, the paninis are ready. Come and grab one for yourself. You are my host after all; I wouldn't even bother to cook, but I actually want to live to see the next day." Romano, flustered, turned away from America and served himself.

The amused American obeyed the orders, and got his _panino_ as Romano scurried to his seat. Sitting down himself, he helped himself to the sandwich, which, in his opinion, was absolutely mouth-watering. It reminded him of the time when he and New York had sampled some of the cuisine in Little Italy. "Mis ish meliphish!" he said ecstatically through a mouthful of food.

"Bastard! Don't eat with your mouth full," Romano wiped his mouth with one of the cloth napkins after taking a bite of the pasta. "In order to get the full effect, you need to eat it silently!" He sighed half-heartedly when his companion nodded enthusiastically with sparkling eyes and remained quiet.

The evening passed in a blur of good food, witty banter combined with insults, and laughter at the various stories they told (plus the stupid things they had witnessed fellow nations do). The sky transformed from a canvas of blazing red and gold and orange to a blanket of periwinkle decorated by glimmering stars, but neither country seemed to notice. Indeed, America was doubled over in laughter at one of Romano's retellings of a visit Germany had in Italy.

"And then he the potato was surrounded by this crowd of dancing city girls! He was fucking TERRIFIED!" Romano was nearly crying in mirth, "Veneciano wasn't helping him in the least—he was too busy dancing with them!"

America nearly fell off his seat and wiped the tears out of his eyes, "Did he eventually help the dude? I mean, Germany's always helping Italy, but doesn't he help Germany out of these situations?"

"Oh yeah, he did, but not before the girls had pulled the muscle mass into their circle and started teaching him how to do the dance!" Romano topped off his glass with the wine America had brought out, a 2010 Pinot Grigio Jermann. He had been surprised when America had informed him that California had said Pinot Grigio was best suited for _mozzarella alla caprese_, and even more surprised when he realized that it was Italian.

"Oooh dude, that's incredible," America took a bite of his third panino, much to Romano's satisfaction. Truly, there were better sandwiches than those God-awful burgers. "I would pay good money to see pictures or video—both, if possible."

A rather scary grin appeared on Romano's face. "How much are we talking about here?"

"20 bucks, tops."

"_Pfft_, I wouldn't even lend you them if you had fifty."

"Dude, I'm in a recession! Help me out a little here!" America's eyes had turned pleading, and he was fast approaching the deadly puppy eyes. Oh no, he was _not_ going to fall for those eyes. His brother had been doling them out since day one and by now he was pretty much impervious. Unfortunately, America had those big baby blues that had the freaky ability to turn depressed at the drop of a hat. Damn, not wonder England could never resist, Romano was already feeling the pressure.

"F-fine, dammit! You can see them for ten bucks! With the condition that you don't eat McDonalds for a week!" _Ha, got ya there burger bastard_.

America paused and scrunched his eyebrows in deep thought. On the one hand, he would have to give up his precious Micky D's for _seven days_! That's the American equivalent to Japan's scary-ass ring movie! _"Sssseven dayssss…to ssurvive with no burgerssss…"_ But on the other hand, he would have the rare chance to see Germany in three situations at the same time: surrounded by girls, totally out of his comfort zone, and dancing something that was not the polka. And the last one alone was reason enough to forgo burgers. (Besides, he can always go to In & Out.)

"Deal! And a hero always keeps his word!" Romano inwardly scowled, but figured, why not? It would be nice to have someone besides the potato bastard's brother laugh at his video.

"Very well, I'll bring the video at the next world conference." Romano stared out at California's backyard as America wandered back into the house and brought out two bowls of _gelato_, looking at the tomato plants, the darkening sky, the almost-gone sun, and the brightening stars. He ate his gelato without a word, unusual for the southern Italian, and America did not fail to notice.

"So, didja like the barbeque?" a Cheshire cat grin came over his mouth as he gazed at his friend.

Romano harrumphed and looked at the sky in the beginning throes of twilight. "I had better things to do."

That was obviously Romano-speak for, "I had a good time." America grinned at his correct translation and took another bite of gelato.

**XXX**

I am wondering if I got their personalities right. Anyway, drop a review to let me know what you think!

_-Annie's and Pierre Foods are brands I found at Costco. "Pierre" freaked out Romano because he thought of France, and that it was attached to hamburgers made it too much to bear. xD_

_- _Prosciutto_ and _paninis_ are, respectively, Italian meat and sandwiches. _Panino_ is the singular term._

_-American markets have lots of food from all over. Go to Trader Joe's if you don't believe me._

_-Most active in cities like Chicago and states like New Jersey, the Mafia is an Italian-American crime society that started when members of the Sicilian Mafia fled to the United States at the turn of the 19__th__ century._

_-2010 Pinot Grigio Jermann is an Italian wine that indeed goes well with _mozzarella alla caprese_ and has "clean, crisp aromas of apple and pear, plus a whiff of white flowers." It sounds heavenly._


End file.
